It was winter and the air smelled of snow. Once-warm coffee bounced around in the cup holder, and frost delicately covered the windshield.  I bundled myself up in a warm sweater that I knew would be negatively commented on as soon my mother saw me. As the highway fell behind me and local roads appeared, I began to dread the question. The question that floated around at every dinner, lunch, and family gathering. The question of marriage. 

I knew that I had reached home once I passed Laxmi’s Sarees. With one glance I saw three beautiful sarees, one blue, one pink, one red, displayed in the windowsill. Impulsively, I pulled the corner, circling back, and receiving several honks and shouts in response to a reckless driving decision.

 I hurried to the window pane where the three mannequins gracefully stood, one with a single arm in the air, bending it tiredly over her head, another with a hand placed elegantly on her hip, and each with colorful bangles adorning their arms. 

The sarees were an explosion of color, with silver and gold beading the accenting decor. I set my eyes on the blue one, dark and calming. It felt like an ocean; tranquil but full of life. I placed a hand on the glass closest to the saree, and rushed into the store before I could think another thought.

I heard a woman speak to me, but I barely acknowledged her as she greeted me. I felt pulled toward it by gravity, like we were at the opposite end of a magnet. In awe, I stood there, watching the saree like I was waiting for it to move or speak. I became still, my mind buzzing with recklessness.

The woman at the register took my silence as an invitation to speak to me. She perkily crept up beside me, as if she would burst without the initiation of conversation. She reminded me of my mother’s friends, and even, a little bit, my mother.

“You getting married?” she asked, excited, and knowing. I was confused at first and taken aback by the assumption, but I quickly realized I had forgotten this was a wedding store. Who but a bride would enter with such excitement?

Her voice seemed proud and her heart seemed full. I felt as if I were her own daughter. And her hopeful eyes, eyes that could be shattered with disappointment any second, flipped a switch inside my heart.

“Yes,” I lied. The word slipped off my tongue gracefully, shockingly easy to say. And as I fell on to the lie, I began to float. I became lighter, the air felt fresher upon my face. I danced in the comfortable hoax I had created. 

I forced a smile across my lips as if they were pliable putty, cordially bearing my teeth to her, emulating to the best of ability what I believed a woman in love is supposed to look like. It felt harmless. I mean, I had no idea who this woman was.

“Ah! I will show you best ones!” she shouted with glee. And as she scurried to the back of the room, all of a sudden, I felt sick to my stomach with the lie. 

I was reminded of the countless times I had answered that question, truthfully. Obtrusive family members raising their eyebrows asking me, “When?!” with pleading eyes and anxious smiles. And I would always look down, hesitating before pulling the trigger and launching the bullet of honesty. “No,” I would say, “not yet.” And each and every time their faces would fall as if I'd slapped them, and they’d turn away, momentarily shattered. 

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She returned, a gorgeous red lehenga in her hands. Intricate beading covered the deep red fabric sea and a full skirt fleeing out from the hem. I didn’t deserve this, I was in fact deceiving her, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. The lavish, indulging feeling, of impending matrimony, consumed me. I fell victim to it, and it took me in its hands. It wouldn’t let go. 

I became her bridal doll, as she dressed me, made me up, and decorated me like a Christmas tree. After about thirty minutes more of looking around, trying on the loveliest of hers in sight, I told the woman it was getting late and I had to meet my mother. Her doll now had to go back into the playbox. She seemed disappointed but I assured her that I would call before I left town, and she was pleased. 

I hopped back into my car and drove away from the building feeling dizzy with impulsivity and strange regret. I was forty-five minutes late for lunch with my mother, and I didn’t care. Even so, a lump of anxiety sat in my stomach as I continued to drive, and I came to the conclusion it wasn’t because of my lateness. It was because I had learned something new. Something I always knew in my heart but hadn’t seemed to become true until now. I realized that one lie has the power of a thousand men, a thousand words, and a thousand hearts. And today, as I drove to lunch, I would be a married woman.